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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27107590">Harmony and How to Achieve It</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/shimadagans/pseuds/shimadagans'>shimadagans</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Destiny (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Study, Destinytober (Destiny), Getting Back Together, Lack of Communication, M/M, Other, Pining, Slow Burn, The Dawning (Destiny), Trauma</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 05:55:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,091</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27107590</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/shimadagans/pseuds/shimadagans</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>[They come in shades, the three of them. Despite the duality of magnetism, he feels it fitting to describe the manner in which they drift towards one another, like a collection of black holes set on their inevitable path to calamitous union.<br/>Who takes care of the legends, when they are at their lowest? Who supports the unbreakable when they break? Who defends the infamous from their own undoing?<br/>One another, of course.]</p>
<p>Using DestinyTober prompts to slowly introduce and further my ambitious OC/Canon/Canon agenda. OC-centric, but relates to the 'Playing Nice' verse. Not necessarily in chronologic order.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Guardian/Osiris (Destiny), Guardian/Osiris/Saint-14 (Destiny), Guardian/Saint-14 (Destiny), Osiris/Saint-14 (Destiny)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>70</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Your Guardian</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He has many names.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>‘The Hero of the Red War’, most recently. ‘Guardian’ to most, in passing. ‘Young Wolf’ to the ones who know the glory, legacy, and weight of Iron. ‘Warlock’ to those who recognize the bond, the robes. ‘God-Slayer’ to those who speak in whispers about the deeds done in the ascendant plane.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>These names, among many others, have become as integral a part of his protection as his helmet. They are easy to wear as masks when the pressure to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span> becomes too much, so he becomes whatever it is they want to see, to hear. When people grow tired of that, then he makes himself scarce enough to stay aloof, afloat.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Very few know his actual name, though, and even fewer say it aloud for him to hear.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“My friend,” Saint-14 touches his shoulder with the gentleness of someone used to rousing people from their deepest thoughts, “Your mind wanders, I can tell. What troubles you?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It would be easy, too, to say “It’s nothing,” to laugh it off as just another moment of spaciness, then to ask Saint about how Trials are going. He knows for a fact that Saint, thoughtful as he is, would be more than happy to move on, to give him space, but something in the Titan’s words makes his mind stick.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>‘My friend’. Yet another substitute for his name, another piece of armor that separates him from others, and him from himself. Saint means well, he knows, </span>
  <em>
    <span>he knows</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but it doesn’t stop the kind words from stinging.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He forces his shoulders to untense, eyeing the side of Saint’s helmet as he tosses more seed out for his birds. The two of them sit side by side on the stairs leading up to the interior of the Grey Pigeon, as they often do nowadays, a welcome respite for both. The Titan has all the patience of his namesake, of course, and he busies himself with the birds as he forms his thoughts.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Does anyone </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> call you by your name?” he asks, because it’s always been easier to explain himself through questions than through answers.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Saint hums thoughtfully, setting the bag of seed aside before coming to rest next to him again with a grunt, “Sometimes, yes. Everyone is called ‘Guardian’, nowadays. ‘Titan’, sometimes, on the rare chance I’m not recognized.” He chortles, hearty and warm, “And you know how all the old guard loves to throw around ‘the greatest Titan to ever live’.” He nudges him with one arm, careful of the points of his pauldrons, “Why do you ask?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He considers, with just the briefest hesitation, “It’s just that...you’re so legendary, everyone knows your name. Even if they don’t know it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, they’ve heard of Saint-14.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span> “I did not take you for the jealous type, my friend,” Saint laughs again, but he feels himself go stiff again.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“‘My friend’, why do you call me that?” he asks, unable to keep a little bite out of his tone, gripping the edge of the step he’s perched on, “You know my name, don’t you?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a pause as Saint shifts to look at him straight on, concern in his posture, softness in his tone, “Yes, I could not ever forget your name. When I first met you, I swore I would never forget the name of the one who saved me.” The Titan drums his fingers on his own leg, the soft sound of metal on metal punctuating his words, “I call you ‘my friend’ out of respect for your privacy. I noticed nobody else here called you directly by your name.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Of course, there’s a reasonable explanation. There (almost) always is, with Saint. He lets out a slow, steady breath. Saint has done nothing to earn his ire. He sincerely doubts he ever will, steadfast and kind as he is.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’d be happy to use your name, though, if that is what you want,” Saint says, after a moment of letting him breath, “Cyril, my friend.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Saint claps him on the shoulder a while later, sending him off with a clear, “I will see you again soon, Cyril!” He feels more like himself than he has in a while.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Your Ghost</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Day 2: Your Ghost<br/>Frost takes Cyril to task.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Six o’clock!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sound of a bow being drawn taut, then the hushed </span>
  <em>
    <span>swft</span>
  </em>
  <span> of the arrow whizzing past and directly into the skull of the Knight down the way.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Excellent</span>
  </em>
  <span> shot,” Frost says over the neurolink, as Cyril slides back into cover, knocking another arrow, “Just a few more pings down the next bend, then the large fellow at the end and this sector is clear.” A pause, “Again. Why are we clearing this area for the fifth time today?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You know why,” the Warlock mutters to his Ghost, “Call it a perfectionist’s streak.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a moment of relative quiet, beyond the shrieks of the Acolytes in the next cavern as they, too, are pierced by arrows they only just see coming.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s just a Lost Sector, Guardian,” his Ghost says, long-suffering, “There’s nobody here but us.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cyril snorts at him, darting around the last corner, switching to his sword, “Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t perform at my best.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A few minutes and one hasty rez later, Cyril slams a hand down on the chest at the back of the last cavern, cursing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This should be </span>
  <em>
    <span>simple</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he starts pacing, back and forth in front of the loot, “Easy. Something a rookie would have no issues completing. And here I am making careless, avoidable, </span>
  <em>
    <span>stupid </span>
  </em>
  <span>mistakes.” He stops abruptly, taking out the bow again and making his way to the edge of the cavern that drops into the open space of the ground floor of the sector, “Again. We’re doing it again.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, that’s quite enough, I think,” Frost bristles past him, buzzing right up into his face, spines flaring, “We are doing no such thing.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cyril outright balks at his refusal, “Pardon?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You are running yourself into the ground with this ridiculous pursuit of perfection,” his Ghost floats sternly in front of him, “You expect too much of yourself, set your goals to be unreachable, then berate yourself for not meeting them. Why?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cyril turns away from him crossing his arms, almost petulant, “You know just as well as I do what is expected of us.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, and it isn’t perfection.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There are so many people who are counting on us,” Cyril says, softer yet still tense, “And legacies we have to live up to. People in the City, they talk about me like I’m--like I’m anywhere close to where Ikora is, or Osiris, or--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And not a single one of those people is you,” Frost says, softer as well, “None of them are </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> Guardian. So,” he nudges the lax arm of his Warlock, “I don’t particularly care what they think or expect. I care about </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sap,” Cyril says after a long moment, decidedly </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> watery in the slightest.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Off Duty</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Day 3: Off Duty<br/>Birdwatching with Saint-14, what could go wrong?</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They land on Nessus when it’s still light out, thankfully. The landing zone Cyril chose for them to start at is quiet, with no events or ordinances scheduled on the centaur for the day, just the hull of what once was the Exodus Black and an expanse of greenery meshed with Vex tech as far as the eye can see. </p><p>When Saint-14’s boots touch the ground behind him, even his breathing seems hushed. It’s not often, even still, that Saint gets the chance to go off-planet, and when Cyril had slyly mentioned that he had a rare day off and was planning on doing some ‘birdwatching’, Saint had nearly jumped at the offer to join him.</p><p>Cyril looks over his shoulder at Saint, watching him take in their surroundings, watching the way the weak light catches the curve of his helm, as if the very sun is welcoming him here.</p><p>He turns away before he can think anything else ridiculous. Frost snorts at him.</p><p>“Look,” he says instead, pointing to the edge of the platform they stand on, where two winged beasts rest, brightly colored and barely as big as his hand.</p><p>“Oh,” Saint says, still hushed, pausing mid-step, “What strange colors, like tropical birds, but the wings--no feathers. Magnificent, and we only just got here!” He takes a step forward, just the slightest bit too heavy, and the laugh he belts out when the creatures scatter echoes between the stone columns like a bell.</p><p>Cyril leads him around to his favorite spots, pointing out creatures here and there, avoiding the Vex as much as possible--he’s seen the way Saint stiffens and tries to brush it off whenever a Harpy lingers too closely, or when a Minotaur pivots to examine them.</p><p>By the time they make it up to Cyril’s favorite little alcove, nested high above the massive, twisting branches of the Tangle, he’s feeling both refreshed and on edge. He’s always figured Saint is a touchy person, full of cheer and vigor, but he was not at all prepared for the easy way Saint lays a hand on his shoulder, or how he taps quietly on his hand to get his attention when he asks about the creatures he sees.</p><p>On the way up to the alcove, he’d nearly lost his footing on the moss, and Saint had caught him without even losing his own, steady hands on his back and waist. Cyril takes a deep breath once he lands at their destination, willing the phantom feeling away as Saint joins him.</p><p>So much for a day off, Frost’s laughter tinkles at the back of his mind.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Jump Ship</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Day 4: Jump Ship<br/>Cyril reflects on his image.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Fancy piece of work you got there,” Holliday greets him, jerking a thumb over her shoulder at his ship hovering on standby in the back of the hangar. The external wiring wound all around the outside glows brighter for a moment, as if in agreement.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know if I’d call it fancy,” Cyril counters, stopping mid-stride to address her properly, “I’ve seen some ships that have clearly been invested in, well-cared for.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She snorts at that, wiping her forehead with the back of her glove, smearing grease across her face with a grimace, “Yeah, well. There’s a big difference between ‘investment’ and a ship that just says ‘fancy’ all by itself. Yours practically screams it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cyril sighs, well aware of the image he presents to the public: well-kept, immaculate robes, polished guns, and, yes, a shiny, ‘fancy’ ship. Only the finest for </span>
  <em>
    <span>The</span>
  </em>
  <span> Guardian.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The public, however, doesn’t see the inside of his ship, nor the inside of his mind. He can’t even count how many times he’s curled into himself on the floor of the ship’s cabin, gasping or sobbing, how often he’s clutched at the armrests of the pilot’s seat in a weak effort to feel some semblance of control. How, sometimes, the inside of his ship is the only place he feels safe, away from anything or anyone who could question him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You know me,” he offers, breezily, “Always fancy.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Cabal</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Day 5: Cabal<br/>Osiris asks for Cyril's assistance in the Sundial, but it's hard to work with so much noise.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Osiris nods at Cyril as he enters the Sundial’s safety web. The Centurion and Phalanx he rushed past on his way in yell what he’s sure are either obscenities or demands to fight them at his back and he makes a rude gesture at them out of Osiris’ sight.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Punctual as ever,” Osiris notes, calibrating the control panel, and Cyril shakes his head at him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I figure if we’re going to be messing with time, this is the best way to start.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>High-impact rounds ricochet noisily off the time-proof barrier surrounding the device, and Osiris sighs as he works, “Quite the racket they make, these Cabal. Both inside and outside the dome.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The suggestion, the unvoiced request to make the noise stop rings loud and clear through his words, after many hours spent working together. Cyril takes his sidearm back out, turning back to face the subject of their ire, “Be right back.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>By the time he’s quieted things down outside and returns to the center of the Sundial, the worry lines that are visible above Osiris’ scarf have lessened, somewhat. Small victories.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Favorite Emote</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Day 6: Favorite Emote<br/>Cyril gets bored while Osiris is working.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Osiris is messing with something and muttering under his breath after summoning Cyril to come ‘take a look at something’, which, in his dealings with the legendary former Vanguard Commander so far, means entering the Infinite Forest, blasting a few wayward ‘variables’, and sometimes removing a Mind or two.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Today, though, Osiris had barely greeted him on his way in, and has been fussing with something in the data structure he’s asked Cyril to meet him at since then.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“He’s in a </span>
  <em>
    <span>mood</span>
  </em>
  <span> today,” Sagira had chirped at him, quietly, and instead of risking the wrath of an irritated fellow Warlock, he’d taken to practicing honing his Light into various objects, a fairly common way for him to pass time between strikes and missions. A chair, a flower, birdseed and birds to feed it to...and still when he peeks up to check on Osiris, he’s still turned away, tinkering.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A different tactic, then.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Cyril takes a breath and holds a hand out, letting unafflicted Light take the form of a sabre, not unlike the feeling of summoning a Dawnblade, just not as warm. Fully formed, he gets a feel for the weight of it, turns, and does his best impression of the fancy salute he’s seen in grainy footage from ancient, archived video feeds. Frost snorts at him, and Osiris turns at the noise, looking quite ready to chew </span>
  <em>
    <span>somebody</span>
  </em>
  <span> out for daring to disturb his work environment--</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He pauses. Osiris looks him over, almost appraising, before snorting and turning to face him fully, “Your foot placement is atrocious. If Felwinter could see you now, he’d be offended.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Your teacher isn’t here right now,” Cyril deftly steps around all the pitfalls that surround talking to Osiris about </span>
  <em>
    <span>anyone</span>
  </em>
  <span> who isn’t kicking anymore, “Just you and I. And our Ghosts, I suppose.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osiris’ eyes crinkle with what might be disdain, or perhaps amusement. “Very well,” he says, and suddenly the plateau they stand upon feels like it’s ablaze as he draws his Dawnblade out of the very air, already ignited. Cyril’s eyes go wide behind his helmet, and he feels warm for altogether different reasons. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I suppose I’ll have to show you, instead,” Osiris continues, saluting as well, clean, graceful, before lowering both his sword and posture in preparation, “En guarde.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sword fighting? In MY fic? Of course not.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Solar/Void/Arc</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Day 7: Solar/Void/Arc<br/>Cyril's mind wanders, and he's not sure he wants to rein it in.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sometimes, Cyril catches himself thinking.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Thinking isn’t unusual in itself--he’s a Warlock, he’s supposed to be thinking all the time--but he has to stop himself and chase away thoughts sometimes, when they drift to faraway, unreachable places he can’t let himself dream of.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sometimes, though, he can’t help it. After a particularly long day, after doing something particularly exhausting, he doesn’t quite have the energy to tell himself not to dream.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s strange, he thinks. He uses Arc energy as his focus, most of the time. He’s most at home surrounded by storm clouds and unbridled potential. He loves the feeling of fission, instantaneous, electric destruction right at his fingertips.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He can channel other elements just fine, really, but it doesn’t feel quite as satisfying, quite as </span>
  <em>
    <span>right</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sometimes, though, he wonders.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The first time he ended up inside one of Saint’s Wards was when they met for the first time, when he was tracking loose threads and chasing the trail of a legend wrapped in time. It felt strangely like coming home, though he didn’t have time to truly reflect on it with a Titan to save and several Fallen Walkers surrounding them. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Every time after that, when he’s lucky enough to witness or feel the prickle of Void Saint carries with him like a lifeline, he catches himself.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He catches himself thinking about cool, steady Void wrapped around him, of the trickle of inevitability that smells like the very essence of nothing inching up his form.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Then he bats those thoughts away, because he has no place even considering such things when Saint battled through countless Vex on the search for one man and one man alone.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And of that one man…</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s seen Osiris in action, in person, having fought to contain and destroy Panoptes alongside the legend himself. Even then, he’d thought that descriptions and stories and prophecies--none of that measured up to the real thing. Being near Osiris when he summons his Light is like staring into the sun itself, like reaching into flame willingly, knowing you’re going to be burnt.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He catches himself thinking, too, of sun-warm hands tracing his collarbone, his own hands, of the hidden </span>
  <span>spontaneity of quick fingers and quicker wit.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He casts those thoughts far away, too, because Osiris is not a man to pine after, especially not with humanity’s most gallant Titan chasing him to the ends of the world and back. Not with Osiris following him there.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When he’s feeling particularly lonely and bold, he’ll think of both of them, of his own crackle of Light rushing over the both of them as he’s surrounded by them both, of both of their Light suffusing his very core in turn.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When he catches himself thinking of </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he forces himself to go elsewhere, to change his scenery in the hopes that’ll dictate the tone of his thoughts instead. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Frost always sighs at him when he gets like that, when he thinks of Arc, of Void, of Solar energies intermingling. He’s never said anything aloud about it, though, and Cyril would very much like to keep it that way.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm back with a lil 2-part chunk for days 6 + 7....here's where we start getting more into the meat of this whole thing. Hope you enjoy!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Dance Party</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Day 8: Dance Party<br/>It's the Dawning, and Cyril's got cookies to hand out, and maybe he'll get to spend some time with a certain legendary Titan...<br/>Saint, however, has a lot on his mind.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The crisp, jovial air of the Dawning is upon him before he knows it, and the whole City seems to be especially appreciative of the holiday this year. Cyril’s seen enough fellow Guardians scuttering to and fro, collecting ingredients, to know that some people are definitely getting more treats than others.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He pays his own dues, though. He collects enough ingredients to make every person he’s worked with this year a little something--yes, even the cursed denizen of the Dreaming City’s deepest chambers gets a ‘visit’.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He saves his trip to Saint for last, partially because he wants to end his little trip around the system on a high note, and partially because, selfishly, he’d hoped to spend a little time with the Titan after being on the move for so long.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s only got two boxes of treats left by the time he gets down to the hangar, and it’s already dark out, the high floodlights keeping the open bay lit. Saint, of course, is waiting for him already, sitting on the steps of his ship and leafing through a book, his precious birds seemingly all nested for the evening.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” Cyril puffs out once he gets close enough, his breath visible even inside the hangar, and Saint looks up from his book in surprise, then apparent joy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re back!” he says, bright, jovial, and then when he realizes his voice echoes through the mostly-quiet hangar, he takes it down a notch, “I did not expect you to be so quick with your deliveries!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, well,” Cyril shrugs, “I didn’t stay to chat much. Mostly just wanted people to know I was thinking of them.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You are so thoughtful,” Saint beams at him, “Going out of your way to tell all of them that you care.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>To cover for how warm his face suddenly feels, Cyril asks Frost to transmat the last two boxes into his hands, held behind his back, and Saint looks at him curiously until he clears his throat, “Actually, there are two more batches I need to deliver.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He holds both out to Saint with all the theatrics of the Ghost Theatre, and Saint seems even more delighted than before, “Cyril, my friend, you did not need to bring me anything! Really, it is I who should have something for you!” He pauses then, hands lingering just over Cyril’s own, “Two boxes? Really, that is too much.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, technically,” Cyril clears his throat again, finding it strangely hard to talk all of a sudden, “One of them is for Osiris.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The effect the infamous Warlock’s name has on Saint is instantaneous--his whole frame seems to droop and his shoulders square off, leaving his posture not at all the picture of welcoming joy he’d been just a moment before. Cyril is left scrambling to figure out what he’s done wrong when Saint says, “Ah, your kindness truly knows no bounds. But why bring Osiris’ cookies to me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I...I guess I figured you’d be seeing him sooner than I would,” Cyril says, still holding both boxes and starting to feel as though he’s made a terrible faux-pas, “Sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed, I just wasn’t planning on going out to Mercury for another few days and--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It is alright,” Saint quiets him with one big hand held up, “It is a reasonable assumption to make, but…” he makes a staticy, grumbly noise, “Osiris and I, we are...not talking very much right now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cyril is so taken aback that he momentarily forgets most of his manners, “What? Why?!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Saint sighs so heavily Cyril can practically feel it from where he stands a few feet away, “It does not make for a good story.” He makes a visible effort to stand up straighter again, “Come and sit with me? And help me eat these cookies, please.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When Cyril follows Saint’s sweeping gesture, there is a veritable mountain of cookie tins and boxes of all shapes and sizes stacked around his ship, and he has to stifle a wondrous laugh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I do not know who found out my favorite kind of sweet and who shared it around,” Saint says, shaking his head as he sits on the steps leading up to his ship, “But they have done me a service. Maybe too much of a service.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m almost sorry I brought more,” Cyril says, jokingly somber as he wiggles the tin he’d brought for Saint at him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do not be sorry,” Saint says, matching his tone easily, “Eating them all so the birds do not get into them is a sacrifice I am willing to make.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cyril has to stifle another laugh in the back of his hand as he settles on the steps too, and when Saint undoes the clasps of his helmet and takes the tin he’s offered, he leans back and tries not to look too hard at the Titan’s face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s not like he hasn’t seen Saint’s face before, really. It was just...devoid of any signs of life when he last saw it. Cyril shakes his head to get rid of the literally vexing thoughts and glances at Saint, taking a ribbon cookie from the tin, “So...you and Osiris?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Saint munches quietly for a moment, and Cyril spares that moment to admire the various moving parts of his face, different materials meshed together to form a visage he’s not sure he could tire of looking at. “We were once very close,” Saint says, much quieter than usual, bright violet eyes cast downwards, and Cyril finds himself leaning closer just a tad, “Osiris and I...well, simply put, we were partners. Both in work and in life outside of it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cyril nods, unwilling to interrupt, though he’d assumed as much from the way they each had talked about one another.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“When he left, chasing what I thought--what we </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> thought--was a myth, a mistake, I was...angry. Sad. And eventually, those feelings brought me to leave to find him. But you know that already, yes?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Cyril hums, realizing he’s been staring at Saint’s face and forcing himself to listen more carefully, “And you two just couldn’t find each other.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, we could not,” Saint sighs again, and Cyril curses himself for wanting to offer comfort he’s not sure Saint would accept, as troubled as he seems, “But you have solved that for us, brilliant as you are.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He tries not to react visibly to his praise, nodding again, unsure of exactly where Saint is going with this, “Yeah, I guess so. You guys have talked since then, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Saint goes quiet again, Cyril blinks, then turns around sharply, “You haven’t?! Really?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not from lack of effort on my part,” Saint huffs, and Cyril rubs a hand over his own face in disbelief, “Osiris barely answers any messages, and when he does it’s as short as possible. And he refuses to tell me where I can find him. I am left wondering what it is I’ve done to upset him, but sometimes I think he is just running away, still.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hold on, just--” Cyril rubs his face more vigorously, as if it might clear up just what is going on, “Hold on, Osiris spends centuries mourning you, then builds a device </span>
  <em>
    <span>specifically </span>
  </em>
  <span>meant to find you lost in time, predicts your return in those poems he calls prophecies, mopes some more, we find your gun…” he looks straight at Saint, willing him to help him understand. Saint just shrugs and Cyril finds himself emboldened to continue, confusion working its steady way to fury, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> go into the timelines, find you, give you your gun--a very nice gun, by the way--then we have a run in with a Vex Mind built to drain your light, you emerge victorious from the Infinite Forest after several centuries stuck in it and you’re telling me that he hasn’t spoken to you, face-to-face, at </span>
  <em>
    <span>ALL</span>
  </em>
  <span>?!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It is a very fine gun, yes, thank you,” Saint murmurs, instead of answering the question, and Cyril knows he’s heard enough.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to Mercury,” he says, standing immediately, narrowly avoiding smacking his head on the underbelly of Saint’s ship, “I’m going to Mercury and Osiris and I are going to have a few </span>
  <em>
    <span>words</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Frost buzzes worriedly at the back of his head, but Cyril’s thoughts are all whirled around, like the snow falling outside the hangar. What is Osiris </span>
  <em>
    <span>thinking</span>
  </em>
  <span>? If they were so close, why haven’t they talked? How </span>
  <em>
    <span>dare</span>
  </em>
  <span> he ignore Saint, after everything Saint did to find him, after all the time he spent looking for him?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A part of him quirks a metaphorical eyebrow at himself: why is it that he cares so much? Why should he be more than tangentially interested in the affairs of two Guardians much stronger and (supposedly) wiser than him? Yes, he supposes he considers them both friends, but…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He recalls a steady hand on his shoulder and birdwatching under mossy stone architecture. He thinks of the heat of the Sun on his back and many a bewitching conversation.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wait a moment, Cyril,” Saint’s slightly strained voice--and his hand on his arm--tug him back to the present. When he focuses on Saint’s face, the form of his brow and the dim light from his eyes read of uncertainty. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I will not stop you from going to him, but,” there’s a moment where Cyril swears he must be seeing things--is the acclaimed, astonishingly accomplished Saint-14 </span>
  <em>
    <span>fidgeting</span>
  </em>
  <span>? “I was hoping, since it is the Dawning, and my first Dawning back in the City,” Saint pauses again, one hand still resting at Cyril’s wrist, the other tapping his own leg, “That you would come with me to a little party?” When Cyril gapes at him for a moment, Saint barrels on, sounding increasingly and uncharacteristically nervous, “It is a little thing, I promise, not many people, and mostly people we’d both know. I just,” the Titan’s eyes shift away and back again, soft violet against dark and shimmering metal alike, “I did not want to go alone. Having you there would be a great comfort.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He opens and closes his mouth a few times, eyes darting around the hangar as he breathes in chilled air. “Tonight?” he manages, eventually, because asking questions seems to be his way to cover the gaps in his thinking.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, tonight,” Saint replies, “Even if just for a while.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cyril weighs his options.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>While it would be </span>
  <em>
    <span>incredibly</span>
  </em>
  <span> satisfying to jet off to Mercury with a box of cookies in tow just to tell Osiris off for ignoring arguably the most devoted man known by anyone, Cyril knows he’d probably just lose steam about halfway through the rant he’s already partially prepared.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Saint is here, now, asking for his help, his </span>
  <em>
    <span>company</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He’d be lying if he said that the thought that Saint wants him to accompany him just because he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> doesn’t do lovely things to his ego and that damn flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe Saint sees him as more than some legendary hero.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We can go to the party,” Cyril answers, eventually, and then gets nearly bowled over by Saint in his excitement.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Really? You’ll come with me?” Saint asks, tucking Cyril’s much slighter frame against his own with an arm slung around his shoulders. Cyril has to turn his head to avoid catching a facefull of pauldron points, and Saint mutters a quick, sheepish apology.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Cyril offers, and he can’t help himself, he smiles. Saint’s energy is purely infectious, he’s practically radiating joy and Cyril is awash in the current.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wonderful!” Saint loosens his hold on him, turning to him with a bright smile, “We don’t have to stay long, I just promised Shaxx I’d stop by, and I know you don’t much like parties--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, now,” Cyril nudges Saint in the side with an elbow, feeling bolder, “I like parties just fine, real ones. Just not those awful Consensus-sponsored things. There’s barely any food and everyone just wants to be seen talking to people for clout.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A few hours and a few drinks later, he’s seated by a fire, watching Ikora fly by in a flutter of robes, whisking someone around in a dance on the cleared-off patio of some bistro downtown. He’s feeling...less bitter about the whole Osiris situation than he was before they left, and with Saint’s arm a heavy, warm presence across his shoulders as he sits next to him, it’s hard to find an argument to go to Mercury right away after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The band, seemingly made up of other Guardians, finishes one song and slides right into the next, a more upbeat tune that gets one of Saint’s feet tapping. He’d traded the trademark armor for something a little less...clunky, and they’d stopped by Cyril’s place on the way so he could do the same. He looks...nice, really nice--like there’s a literal weight off his shoulders, like he’s enjoying himself, violet eyes bright with merriment when they meet Cyril’s and--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh, oh Light. He was just </span>
  <em>
    <span>staring</span>
  </em>
  <span> at Saint, wasn’t he. Frost snickers at him from the corner of his mind, and Cyril flails internally, trying to come up with some sort of witty comment--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This is a song I remember from before I left,” Saint hums, his foot still tapping, fingers tapping, too, where they rest, curved around Cyril’s shoulder, but then his face falls a bit, plating shifting into a frown, “The last time I heard this, Osiris and I--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dance with me?” Cyril asks, taking the hand on his shoulder and getting to his feet, “We can’t let Ikora hog the dancefloor all night, she’ll just make everyone else look bad.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a long moment where Cyril is certain his impulsivity has really screwed him over this time, with Saint looking at him like he just suggested that they leap headfirst into a Vex portal for fun.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, Saint rises to his feet as well, his hand still in Cyril’s (and oh, he sure is aware, once again, of their height difference). “Of course,” he rumbles, a tone in his voice that Cyril can’t quite put his finger on, “I think I still remember the steps.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Teach me?” Cyril asks, as Saint leads him towards the other dancers, including an eagle-eyed Ikora, riding the combined wave of relief and the buzz of excitement, “You’re always saying you’ll teach me some of your old tricks.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hah! This is no trick,” Saint shakes his head and Cyril matches his steps as best he can, proud of himself for keeping up, “With a brilliant mind like yours, this will be easy.” Cyril keeps his gaze around Saint’s collar so maybe, in the dim light, he’ll miss the traitorous flush that rises to his cheeks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Even after that song, they don’t stop. Saint wheels him through a few older songs, sometimes humming along, and when the band chooses one that he doesn’t seem to know, Cyril makes him laugh with silly, exaggerated gestures, even dipping Saint low enough in a close hold that somebody nearby wolf whistles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s late by the time things start winding down, and, with their hands wound together, Saint pulls him aside, a bit away from the other partygoers, towards a ledge overlooking more of the City. Cyril’s mind is much quieter, now that he’s had some time to digest everything. Saint sighs and brings their hands to rest on the low wall, “I haven’t had that much fun since...well, it’s been a long time,” he says, the lights in his face glowing softly as he looks at Cyril, “Thank you for coming with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No need for thanks,” Cyril shakes his head and actually lets himself look back at Saint this time, taking in every detail, “It </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> fun. I’m never going to forget the way Shaxx made himself scarce when Ikora started talking about her old Crucible days.” He pauses, chances a squeeze to Saint’s hand, “I’m...sorry, about how I reacted earlier.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Saint makes a questioning noise, then, “Ah, about Osiris. No, my friend, it is understandable. I think, were I in your shoes, I would be angry too.” He sighs again, heavier this time, “I would go and talk to him, myself, in person, if I did not think it would make things worse.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s quiet for a long moment before Cyril speaks again, thinking, hoping, then deciding: “I...think you should. Go talk to him, that is.” When Saint makes a dismissive noise, Cyril squeezes his hand again, “No, listen. You waited for one another for...a very long time, and maybe you just need...a mediator? Someone to be there to hear both sides, to keep your heads clear.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s another quiet moment where Saint seems to be deliberating, with himself or with his Ghost. Then he makes a quiet sound of assent, “You…may be right. Of course, Cyril, you are too thoughtful not to be.” Cyril’s busy trying to fight down any reaction to more of Saint’s praise and he almost misses the next part, “...I do not want to ask more of you, but I think you would be the best person to be that middle party.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I--what?” he asks, caught rather off guard, “Not...not Ikora? She seems like the best choice. Or maybe Shaxx? Maybe even Zavala, since--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Cyril,” Saint squeezes </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> hand, now, and he finds himself shutting </span>
  <em>
    <span>right</span>
  </em>
  <span> up, “These are also good candidates, but they do not know both of us as you do. They would be biased, one way or another.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And you think I wouldn’t be?” Cyril replies, faint eyebrows furrowed, “Did you even hear me earlier, going on about how much of an ass Osiris is being?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Saint rumbles with a deep chuckle, “Yes. And I trust you to have an open mind about what you might hear.” He shakes his head, shoulders sagging, “Cyril, I fear I do not live up to expectations. I am far from perfect. I have said and done things I regret, especially concerning Osiris.” He turns to face Cyril fully, the dim moonlight catching the dark cut of his face plates, “I trust you to listen to us both and help us listen to one another.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cyril catches himself swallowing, feeling almost as if his heart is being squeezed inside his chest. Saint doesn’t know any better, he tells himself, it isn’t as if Saint is asking to hurt him, he’s asking because he truly trusts Cyril’s judgement.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t make the sinking feeling in his gut any more pleasant, though. Who was he kidding, pining after </span>
  <em>
    <span>Saint-14</span>
  </em>
  <span> like some fool hearing the legends for the first time?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If you think it would help most,” Cyril eventually says, realizing Saint is starting to fidget again, and with </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> fingers, no less, “Then yes. But how are we going to convince Osiris to actually meet with us?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You have access to his fancy machine, yes?” Saint offers, then, when Cyril slowly nods, “Hah, easy, then! We will go there, and he will come to meet us.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Even though he has his doubts, it’s hard to disagree when Saint exudes such confidence, “I...alright, then. We can do that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, he’s being crushed to the chest of a particularly animated Titan, Saint’s voice physically rumbling beneath his cheek, “Thank you, Cyril. You are truly a blessing.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cyril just closes his eyes for a moment and tries to enjoy the embrace while it lasts.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This one got away from me a little bit, but the idea to lay the overall plot down a bit smoother got me really going. a bunch more words than most of the proceeding chapters, but I hope it's enjoyable! cheers!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. 9. Armoring Up</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Day 9: Armoring Up<br/>Cyril and Saint travel to Mercury to speak with Osiris directly. Cyril tries to prepare himself for what's to come.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Deep breath in, deep breath out.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’d agreed to this. Saint had asked him, had put his faith and trust in him--</span>
  <em>
    <span>again</span>
  </em>
  <span>--and he’d said yes.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He’s not one to go back on his word.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You are tense,” Saint notes from somewhere behind him as Cyril pilots them through dark space towards Mercury, the sun almost too bright in contrast. It’s not an accusation, Cyril thinks, just an observation, but it stings nonetheless. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He makes an active effort to lower his shoulders and lean back in his seat, keeping his eyes on the direction they’re heading in, “Sorry. Got a lot on my mind. Want to make sure I’m...prepared.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As if one could ever be really, fully prepared to effectively play marriage counselor to arguably two of the strongest Guardians to ever be risen.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You and I both,” Saint’s chuckle is nothing but good-natured, but Cyril can pick up on some dissonance in his tone alone, “But do not worry too much, I know you like to.” Saint takes a deep breath too, “Whatever happens will happen, and the result will be better because you are helping.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s hard not to feel like the best version of yourself when Saint-14 of all people is speaking, and Cyril huffs out a breath of laughter in return, “Well, somebody has to keep you two from giving Mercury more craters.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hm, yes,” Saint replies, thoughtful, and though from what Cyril can tell, he hasn’t moved from his perch on the ship’s makeshift bunk, he sounds much further away all of a sudden, “We do.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a beat of poignant silence in which Cyril questions every word he just spoke, much to Frost’s chagrin, and then he can hear Saint shift, metal against metal, “Ah, well, we are almost there. Thank you again, Cyril, for agreeing to this.” He tries not to jump in the pilot’s seat when Saint rests a gentle hand on his shoulder, and he keeps his gaze straight ahead, keeps his fingers locked tightly into place on the navigation panel.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Deep breath in, deep breath out. Keep the mask on. This isn’t about you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Each word slots into place like armor, and only when he’s sure his voice sounds exactly how he wants it does he reply, light and airy:</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t thank me just yet.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Just a little tidbit between two of the meatier prompts. Hope you're all looking forward to the 'confrontation' as much as I am!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Defend</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Day 10: Defend<br/>Cyril and Saint travel to Mercury to have a little chat with Osiris. <br/>It goes about as well as you can hope.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>By the time they touch down on Mercury’s sandy surface, Cyril has his business face firmly in place behind the visor of his helmet and a steady grip on his bow.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We’ll have to fight our way up,” he says, nodding towards the Cabal troops entrenched in the ridge that leads up to the Sundial’s entrance and the Vex forming an offensive against them.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When he turns around to get Saint’s appraisal of the situation, he’s already blasted two Harpies with the Paradox and is mid-swing of a Void-charged haymaker aimed at a Minotaur.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What?” Saint asks, all breathless exhilaration, when he turns and finds Cyril with an arrow knocked but not fired, “You said we should fight!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He sounds delighted, and despite himself, Cyril feels his mask crack just slightly, “I guess I did,” he notes, then nods towards the armored Cabal still peering at them from behind barricades and makeshift cover, “Up we go.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“This will be easy!” Saint bellows in return, already charging the front line, and so it is. It is easy to pick apart the remnants of the Cabal installment; Saint crashing his way through the trench and Cyril following from a distance, picking off any stragglers that catch the Titan in their sights.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It is easy to fight alongside Saint, refreshing, even.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It is easy to step into the stagnant air of the Sundial with Saint at his side.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It is decidedly </span>
  <em>
    <span>less</span>
  </em>
  <span> easy to keep himself from stopping mid-step when he realizes Osiris is already turned around, facing them with a steely gaze and crossed arms.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Saint keeps on walking, shoulders straight, head high, like he owns the place--Cyril supposes he might as well, seeing as it was built for him--and he doesn’t stop until he’s only a few feet away from Osiris. Cyril quickens his step to catch up just in time to catch a quick glimpse of Sagira as she flashes back out of sight with a nod from Osiris.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I assume it’s not a coincidence that the two of you are here at the same time,” Osiris says, and it doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>sound</span>
  </em>
  <span> like he’s any more peeved than he usually is, but his posture stays tense. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Guarded</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Cyril realizes, and he forces himself to relax in return.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Saint seems to be just assessing Osiris for a moment, so Cyril clears his throat and keeps his tone as light as he can, “No, it isn’t,” a moment as he realizes, “You knew we were coming.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>That gets him a whisper of a scoff from the other Warlock, “Not the exact day, no. I only knew that a meeting like this was...inevitable.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Cyril’s about to ask him how he knew, or even what he means, but Saint shifts next to him with a dismissive snort, “Inevitable? Then,” the Titan takes a measured step forward, “Why have you been running?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I am not </span>
  <em>
    <span>running</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Osiris insists, despite the equally measured step back he takes, “I have been busy. Preoccupied with the never-ending threats to humanity, constantly encroaching on our doorstep.” He crosses his arms just a bit tighter, “Excuse me if I haven’t time for small talk nor idle banter.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Small talk, pah. I ask for a single moment of your time, after all the time we’ve spent apart,” Saint presses on, both verbally and physically, taking several quicker, bigger steps forward. Cyril darts forward too, ready to...intervene, he supposes. Osiris retreats until his back is pressed to the center console of the Sundial’s interface, eyes narrowed at the Titan’s advance, and Saint stops just short of touching him, tone more urgent, “And it is like demanding a great sacrifice! Are you truly so unhappy to see me?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Unhappy? No, I--” Osiris makes a dismissive noise and crosses his arms even tighter across himself, back pressed fully against the machinery, “I have a great many things to contend with right now, chief among them the very present advance of the Darkness upon this system. I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>trying</span>
  </em>
  <span> to protect everything, everyone, and if you would just let me </span>
  <em>
    <span>focus</span>
  </em>
  <span>--”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Focus?” Saint barks out a sharp laugh, sounding much more sardonic than Cyril is used to hearing, “How are you supposed to focus with all that </span>
  <em>
    <span>guilt</span>
  </em>
  <span> you wear around you?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Nobody says anything for a moment. Cyril hesitates because he knows full well that they are both more than capable of defending themselves, he hesitates because Osiris </span>
  <em>
    <span>isn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>trying to. The Warlock in question isn’t fleeing, per say, but his whole frame shrinks against the dias he’s built in the full gleam of the Mercurian sunlight, and Cyril wonders how heavy the weight on his shoulders </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> is.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After a moment, Osiris clears his throat and averts his gaze from the steady glow of Saint’s helm.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We may speak,” he says, and Saint grunts before Osiris shoots him a narrow-eyed look. His eyes slip over to Cyril’s again, stormy, unsure, “We may speak, but not here.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Osiris leads them both a short distance away, through sun and shifting sand, to a rocky outcropping, then underneath it, </span>
  <em>
    <span>into</span>
  </em>
  <span> it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What is it with you Warlocks and your </span>
  <em>
    <span>caves</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Saint mutters, and Osiris shakes his head.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t have any caves,” Cyril protests, and Saint pats his arm, “You have time. You are not as ancient as this one.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m ancient, am I?” Osiris calls back to them, opening--no, </span>
  <em>
    <span>removing</span>
  </em>
  <span> a wall in their path to reveal high ceilings and hanging charms. Sagira winks back out of existence with something like a snort.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osiris gestures loosely to a low table off towards a corner, the only surface not completely covered in datapads, supplies, or just </span>
  <em>
    <span>stuff</span>
  </em>
  <span>, probably collected during his time wandering the Forest. The keeper of this nook insists on making them all tea and when he shoos Sagira away, Saint prods Gepetto along, and Cyril follows their lead, letting Frost float off to join them.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They settle at a low table on cushions, and when Cyril raises an eyebrow at the familiar fragrance drifting slowly off the cup Osiris passes him, something the other Warlock had occasionally offered him on long days at work with the Sundial, there’s an almost-smile about him, “Ikora. She visits, sometimes. To bring news of the City, to bring supplies I have a hard time procuring out here.” He looks at the rim of his own cup, clutched between dark fingernails, “To seek advice. To try to convince me to return.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Saint, to his credit, doesn’t ask any questions, simply doffs his helm and takes a long, steady sip.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The rage he felt when Saint first told him Osiris hadn’t held a full conversation with him stirs slowly beneath the surface of Cyril’s skin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So,” he starts, when it seems that Saint won’t ask the question burning his tongue, “You’ve seen Ikora again recently, but not even </span>
  <em>
    <span>talked </span>
  </em>
  <span>to Saint?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osiris keeps his gaze on his cup, seemingly less flighty in his own space, though his fingers tense for just a moment, “Yes, that’s correct.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“There were a few responses to my messages,” Saint supplies, speaking clearly to Cyril but with his face turned towards Osiris, “But they were always short. Blunt.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You had time to take tea,” Cyril presses, tapping his fingers against his own cup, uncrossing his legs and recrossing them in frustration, “But you couldn’t spare a moment of your </span>
  <em>
    <span>precious time </span>
  </em>
  <span>to talk to the man who chased you across it?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osiris raises his voice, now, a lick of flame in his eyes, “I did not lead you here to be lectured,” a scowl aimed in Saint’s direction, too, “Nor to be teamed up on. Get to your point, or we will have wasted </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> of our time.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>In the few seconds Cyril allows himself to get back to something near calm, Saint leans forward a bit, getting a bit in the way of Osiris’ gaze on Cyril, “We are not here to ‘team up’ on you, either,” Saint insists, somewhere between pleading and placating, “I asked Cyril to be here, to help us hear each other better. To keep what happened last time from happening again.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Cyril keeps his gaze aimed up at the high, rounded ceilings of the space Osiris has carved out for himself on this blazing frontier, counting his breaths as an uneasy quiet settles around them. Osiris tops off everyone’s tea, or so Cyril assumes by the muted </span>
  <em>
    <span>clink</span>
  </em>
  <span> of the cups he hears as he assesses the chimes strung from the ceiling, the artifacts spread across the shelves that line the room. How long had Osiris taken to truly make this space his own, to completely come to terms with the near-certainty that he would not walk the City streets again, as he once had?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When he feels that he’s sufficiently curled his sharp edges back into smoothness, he looks back down, across the way. Osiris is studying him, but his eyes no longer frame fire, just a steady, stark curiosity. He curbs the urge to tell Osiris that he thought better of him, and tells himself to hear him, too.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I am here to help,” Cyril echoes, slowly, trying to project calmness into his every syllable, “I’ve only heard Saint’s side of things so far, so I apologize for my reaction.” Osiris nods back at him in recognition, and Cyril chances a glance at Saint before turning back to him, “Saint tells me you left one another last on...unfortunate terms.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Terms of mostly my own doing,” Osiris responds, a twist to his mouth that’s still not quite a smile, something rueful, “At first, I blamed the Speaker almost entirely for my exile, cursed him for not listening with his whole mind.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Father was...too focused sometimes,” Saint says, and Cyril sits back a little, as if to make space for Saint’s quieter, wistful words, “He saw some of that in you, I think, and thought worse of himself for it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osiris’ shoulders tense up, ruffling the feathers there, but after a moment, he takes a sip and his eyes shift between them, his free hand spread over his own knee, “That might be. Still,” his gaze settles on Saint, edging on uncertainty, “It was never my intention to be followed here. Not by those who call themselves my disciples, and not by you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Trying to force you to stay put did not help, I am sure,” Saint sighs, and Cyril watches his fingers twitch where they rest in his lap, “It should not have come to such angry words, let alone blows.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Cyril imagines what a sight that must’ve been, wonders if anyone had actually been lucky (or unlucky) enough to witness what was surely a clash of grand proportions. There must’ve been someone there, for there to be a record of the event beyond spoken word, but who could’ve seen such a thing and survived to speak of it?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I believe the record of what happened is exaggerated,” Osiris says, wry, and Cyril snaps back to attention, drawn to the other Warlock’s words, “Meant to be a cautionary tale, that Guardian versus Guardian combat should stay safely in the Crucible, so we wouldn’t devolve back to the Dark Age.” His expression takes a thoughtful, almost nostalgic shape, “Perhaps Shaxx had something to do with it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hah! He would,” Saint barks out a laugh, then, bright violet eyes shift over to him, “Cyril, what have you heard of when Osiris was formerly exiled?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He has to bite his tongue for a moment.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When he’d first met Osiris, he’d already known some of the myths and intrigue surrounding the man, but when he’d realized his feelings for him had spilled over into something nebulous and </span>
  <em>
    <span>warm</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he’d done what he always does when facing the unknown: armed himself with knowledge. He’d gone through every account surrounding the events that eventually left the Vanguard with not one but </span>
  <em>
    <span>two</span>
  </em>
  <span> vacancies. He’d delved into all of the available texts on the prophecies, and--when the Vanguard official archives had proved lacking--he’d even (begrudgingly) talked to Brother Vance about them, a topic Osiris’ most...vocal disciple had been more than happy to discuss. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As such, he fears he’ll be overplaying his hand if he talks about the events like he knows them well. He chooses his words and tone carefully.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Not much more than any other fairly new Guardian,” Cyril starts, “Just that there was a falling out between Osiris and the Speaker, over what became known as an ‘obsession’ with the Vex, among other things. That you two exchanged some heated words and Osiris left the City, followed quickly by many of his followers, who ended up mostly here on Mercury.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Vance’s people,” Osiris mutters, disdainful, “Several among them sowed dissent through the city in my name, though I had not spoken even a word to them of it. I have to stay on the move, even here, moving between safehouses so as to not rouse their attention.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Father--the Speaker, he was distraught when I insisted that I follow you, </span>
  <em>
    <span>find </span>
  </em>
  <span>you,” Saint fills in the gaps, then, head lowered in Cyril’s direction once more, “He...I believe now that he felt you had become a bad influence on me, and that clouded his judgement. I had every intention of trying to talk to you again, once I found you, but…”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The solemn reminder of what had happened instead weighs down the air around all three of them, dragging the conversation to a quiet stop. Cyril blinks away the afterimage of Saint’s lifeless body, Gepetto’s stony shell, and the mountain of Vex remains around them. Osiris seems to be doing much the same if the way he looks at Saint, if the way his fingers twitch mean anything. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That is no longer the case,” Saint says, firmly, drawing them both back in, and Cyril’s surprised when Saint extends a hand to Osiris and </span>
  <em>
    <span>then</span>
  </em>
  <span> to </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>, surprised enough to give in to the urge to place his hand in Saint’s much larger one. He tries not to think about how nice it feels, how grounding, and Saint shakes his head, “Through both of your brilliance and will, I am here now. And I am glad to be. Things may not be just as they were, but--”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Osiris shakes his head across the table, but Cyril sees he’s holding Saint’s other hand in a much firmer grip than he is, brows furrowed, frown etched deep into his (stupidly) dignified features, “No, they cannot. Saint, I sent you practically to your end,” he swallows thickly, and Cyril has to resist the growing urge to reach all the way across the table, tea be damned, to offer his hand to Osiris, too, “That is </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> responsibility to atone for. I cannot, in good conscious, insert myself into what could be a new chance for you, and--”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hold on,” Cyril finds his voice, sensing Saint tensing up, ready to throw himself into what would surely be a dark, spiraling back-and-forth, “Osiris, that isn’t for you to decide. Er, I mean--” two pairs of eyes glued to his face suddenly give him pause, but he stays the course, “It is, if you don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to give it another go. But don’t you think Saint also gets a say in whether or not he wants to try again?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I...suppose so,” Osiris seems reluctant, still, to admit anything, but Cyril will take any admittance from him as a victory.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Right, and Saint,” he turns his gaze onto the Titan in question, who straightens right up at his tone, “You </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> have to acknowledge, fully, that it has been, for the rest of us, a few </span>
  <em>
    <span>centuries</span>
  </em>
  <span> since you’ve been around. Things aren’t the same, and they can’t go back to what they were. If you two </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> decide you want to…” he has to stop himself, the idea giving him both hope and pain in equal measure, “Be together, again, it will be different. It has to be.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course,” Saint says, voice considerably lower, his eyes a little dimmer, “I know I was...absent, for a long time. I didn’t want to assume,” he shifts to look at Osiris, and Cyril could cry when he squeezes Osiris’ hand, “If you had...met someone else, wanted to move on--”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No,” Osiris’ response is instant, “I admit I may have looked, I may have...considered,” Cyril </span>
  <em>
    <span>swears</span>
  </em>
  <span> for a moment that Osiris’ eyes, bright, flick over to his, but they’re back on Saint in an instant, and Cyril spends the next several seconds hoping his palm hasn’t gone clammy in Saint’s gentle hold as Osiris clears his throat, “But I never...Saint, you are irreplaceable. I could never just ‘move on’, not from you.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s the rawest, most honest he’s ever heard Osiris be about </span>
  <em>
    <span>any</span>
  </em>
  <span> sort of feeling, not counting the unfortunate time he’d arrived at the Sundial too early, just in time to see Osiris breaking down against the center console. He’d so desperately wanted to help, to say something, but the instant he’d approached, Osiris had quickly put himself together and refused to talk about it. As it is, now, it’s enough to make Cyril feel a fresh wave of the same feeling, the same urge to help, to hold.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Saint shifts, looks back to Cyril, and Cyril takes his hand back, out of the safety and temptation of Saint's gentle palm, to pick up his tea again, letting him digest what was said. The Exo looks almost...disappointed? But then, the moment passes and Saint turns, fully, to Osiris, voice softer than he’s ever heard it, “Osiris, I cannot ask more of you than you have already given. I am here now because of what you have done, all I can do is be here, for you, if you want me. And let me be very clear: I want you, still.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Cyril studies Saint’s steadfast profile. He tries his very best not to think of the blinding smile he’d gotten when he agreed to help. He swallows down the confusing, heavy feelings in his chest, threatening to bubble out and ruin things.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“‘If’ I want you?” Osiris scoffs, but it’s fond, any sharpness easily tamed by the way he twists where his and Saint’s hands are joined, fitting their fingers together. Cyril clutches at his cup, then decides, swiftly, to set it down before it shatters in his grasp. “Saint, it has never been a question of ‘if’. I don’t just go around building time-breaking equipment for just anyone.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You will come see me, then?” Saint presses, but it’s not the chase from earlier, not Saint rounding on Osiris like a caged animal, just the gentle movement of waves at a shoreline, made softer by the amendment, “Or, I can come see you?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We can...talk about it,” Osiris relents, and he barely resists when Saint pulls him in, careful, gentle. Cyril feels like he shouldn’t be seeing this, that he can’t bear to. It makes him so </span>
  <em>
    <span>happy</span>
  </em>
  <span> and it </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurts</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it hurts to know, for certain, now, that he has no chance, no shot from any angle to stand besides either of them as anything but an ally, a friend, good company.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s so perfect, to see them like this, Saint oh-so-carefully reaching for Osiris as he simultaneously leans in, the way their hands settle on one another and </span>
  <em>
    <span>squeeze</span>
  </em>
  <span>, like they’re both remembering exactly how to do this, and it’s so good and it’s too much, it’s too much--</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Cyril? Cyril, breathe. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Frost’s presence joins him, slips right into the cosmic backpack, and Cyril forces himself to do just that. He feels light, he feels heavy, he feels </span>
  <em>
    <span>sick, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and--</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“My bird,” Saint murmurs, fondly, and he has to leave.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Quietly, quickly, he abandons his cup, his cushion, his spot. He turns, feels the need to </span>
  <em>
    <span>flee escape run</span>
  </em>
  <span> overcome any politeness and any effort to remain quiet as he turns on his heel and runs, the fluttering of his robes, his heavy footfalls startling both of his </span>
  <em>
    <span>friends,</span>
  </em>
  <span> and he can’t look back at them, he won’t.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Cyril?” “My friend, what--”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Cyril distantly registers that they sounded confused, hurt, but...he did what he needed to, right? He helped them, and now they can try again. They have a shot. He wants them to be happy. He wants the both of them to be happy so desperately, and if he’s just hanging around pining uselessly after one of them, let alone </span>
  <em>
    <span>both</span>
  </em>
  <span>, well. That just can’t happen. There’s no place for him next to either of them.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He tells himself this on a loop as he transmats out of the bright sunlight and right onto his ship, both him and his vehicle on auto-pilot while Frost fusses at him, tells him he’s overreacting.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Turn off all comms,” he says, aloud, to try to quiet his thoughts, “Tell Ikora I’m going off the grid for a while.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Frost does so, but Cyril can still feel the worry seeping through their connection.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He wants Saint to be happy. He wants Osiris to be happy.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>If only that meant he could be happy with them, too.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Okay, bigger chunk this time. This bit took so long to write because the whole sit-down scene was so. emotionally draining to write. I think i spent more on that sequence than any other part of this work so far. but...the plus side is that the payoff inches ever closer.....</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Many thanks to anyone who encouraged me to flesh out and work on my absolutely ridiculous OC/canon/canon ideas. I love Osiris and Saint both so much but I don't think they'd realistically be able to just. go back to the way things were before. might need a mediator before they start talking at all, really. and? who's that? the Hero of the Red War? Maybe he can help!<br/>I'm not at all trying to work on this daily, I'll post updates in 5-chapter chunks.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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